It seemed to him that she could not fail to read in his face the profound and ardent wish to help her; to comfort and assure an uneasy and frightened spirit wandering in the night.
He heard a little, soft sigh. “I don’t know you,” said the voice. “Do I?”
“No,” he answered soothingly as if to a child. “I’m the station-agent here. You must come in out of the wet.”
“Very well.”
He tossed an overcoat on over his pajamas, ran to the door and swung it open. The tiny ray of light advanced, hesitated, advanced again. She walked into the shack, and immediately the rain burst again upon the outer world. Banneker’s fleeting impression was of a vivid but dimmed beauty. He pushed forward a chair, found a blanket for her feet, lighted the “Quick-heater” oil-stove on which he did his cooking. She followed him with her eyes, deeply glowing but vague and troubled.
“This is not a station,” she said.
“No. It’s my shack. Are you cold?”
“Not very.” She shivered a little.
“You say that some one hurt you?”
“Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer.”